


more less like that

by taonsils (mirokkuma)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Marking, Scars, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirokkuma/pseuds/taonsils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If it's small." Sehun shrugs. "And somewhere no one else is likely to see it." Later, maybe next week, when they've had time to prepare and their schedule will be more convenient. Sehun said all of that too, but most of it was lost to Zitao's mouth in excited sounds and sloppy, grateful kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more less like that

**Author's Note:**

> I really need to clear out the wips I've had kicking around for coughmonths a while so yay I got this one finished up. (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

"So I was just thinking, if— oh." Zitao looms over the spread of magazines taking up his space on the bed. He's back straight from practice, worn baggy clothes and still warm with sweat. Sehun isn't sure if he'd rather nuzzle into his oversized hoodie with him or shove him in the direction of the showers. "Were you doing something important?"

"Would it matter if I was?"

"Of course," Zitao looks affronted for precisely long enough, then shrugs it off and leans more persistently. "No, but this is more important."

"Go ahead." Sehun flips the magazines closed, shuffles them together, and pushes them aside. "You were just thinking.."

"Yeah. While I was on my way back. And before that. Quite a lot, before that," Zitao can fold up small when he tries, dipping the mattress as he settles beside Sehun with his knees inching up to his chest. "That if we really like each other, like, for, forever, maybe we.. ah.. should.."

Sehun's brows inch higher as Zitao slows, hands raised mid-gesture. "Should..?"

"Uhmm." Zitao clears his throat more to stall than for effect, folding his hands back over his knees. He's not reaching for a ring, at least; a slight comfort to Sehun's nerves. "Like, get something to show for it. Just for us."

Sehun's expression droops back from tense to uninterested. "Uh, yeah, you already saw to that," he says, shaking the wrist captive in a tight band of silver at Zitao as though he may have forgotten their evening spent tightening screws. Sehun contributed to the gesture by almost immediately losing the box (and by association the screwdriver and his only way of freeing himself).

"No," Zitao protests softly, though his fingers wedge up under the cuff of his jacket to feel out the ridge of his own. "Something more.. Less, like that, more forever."

"Oh. Like what? A tattoo..?" Because that would be really stupid. And maybe kind of cool. Zitao's shaking his head, but he looks uncertain of it being an honest no.

"Sort of like a tattoo."

"Sort of like a tattoo but not a tattoo.." Sehun looks unimpressed.

"Wait." Zitao kisses him sweet and meek and ducks away from the impassive look to retrieve his phone.

 

"Korean," Sehun says immediately.

Zitao wilts a little, but not as much as he would have if Sehun had said no. Or worse.

"We're not doing it in Chinese." Sehun skims the dictionary entry on the screen again just to affirm the point to himself. — _has not healed completely and connective fibrous tissue has developed_ . Their names are too high a count when the strokes are broken skin.

"But we can do it? Are you ok if we do it?" Zitao snatches his phone back just for something to occupy his hands with, scrolling up and down the page. He doesn't know many of the medical terms listed in the entry, but he supposes Sehun probably doesn't either. He knows  _scar_ having wheedled sympathy for the one's he's acquired through their work, but with his tendency to stumble over his words in enthusiasm he hadn't wanted to leave room for misunderstanding. "It's just if we're always going to be together it's something, something I'd really like, but if you're—"

"If it's small." Sehun shrugs. "And somewhere no one else is likely to see it." Later, maybe next week, when they've had time to prepare and their schedule will be more convenient. Sehun said all of that too, but most of it was lost to Zitao's mouth in excited sounds and sloppy, grateful kisses.

˘

"Do you like this?" Sehun asks, tentatively low. Intuition tells him Zitao isn't tense in his hands just from the pain. Intuition and months of sharing a bed, of semi-consummating their relationship and learning him. "I mean.."

The notches in Zitao's spine are starting to ache where they're arched so hard into the wall ("Staying steady, that's the important part.") and he lets out a long breath between the dig of his teeth into his lower lip. ㅎ is next; he's already anticipating the round.

"Yeah," Zitao smiles flushed and bright. "I like it."

Sehun's not entirely sure he does, not the sensation — all they have is safety pins, boiled and bent open and curving under the resistance of skin. It takes more pressure than he'd expected for blood to break through. "Can't say the same," he shrugs, "But once it's done it's done."

"Unromantic," Zitao pouts. His eyes are pricking. "You shouldn't do it if your heart's not in it."

"Stop complaining." A circle is difficult to create without linear edges. Zitao yelps in surprise and whines just because he enjoys opportunities to whine when Sehun abruptly hitches his leg further into his lap to get a better angle. "You know someone's bound to see these before they've healed."

"Maybe."

"And then what if it doesn't scar anyway?" Sehun had insisted if they were doing this on his bed that they laid down something dark over the sheets, but the blood on Zitao's thigh is welling in pinpricks, drying fast. Sehun had imagined it would trickle out. He'd imagined the lines would look thicker, deeper. "Will this even scar?" He touches, carefully, light taps with a fingertip.

"Ow," Zitao sniffs, shoulders pressing back harder into the wall.

 

Sehun will take it better than Zitao did, Sehun thinks. Zitao doesn't agree, slaps Sehun's knee and loses grip of the widest part of the pin again.

"It's harder for me though." Zitao is lying on his front, an arm thrown over Sehun's thigh to keep it still and his own aching leg twisted and curved up. "Trying to concentrate when I hurt."

"Who was the one that wanted to go first? And yours is easier to write." Sehun flicks at Zitao. Then he settles a hand in his hair, fingers burying in. Zitao pushes up into it, wiggles a little before leaning in just that bit closer. Sehun's grip tightens but it's Zitao apologising. Worrying, so careful that the first line of his name doesn't break the skin.

"Oh." Zitao fumbles with the pin again. It's not easy to keep hold of or put pressure behind (Sehun's must have bent open at a better angle than the one he's got), but Sehun musses his hair and shoves at his shoulder and reminds him that they don't have all the time in the world.

"If you can sit through it I think it's pretty obvious that I'll be fine."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

It makes his eyes and nose burn at the back; once Zitao starts he follows through with more precision than Sehun had. And they lie together, both sore and aching, both complaining to each other, and neither of them can fight back smiles.

 

They can't share a bed tonight— can't most nights, nothing new. No one keeps time of Zitao's shower crashing, though, not closely enough for them to have trouble saying goodnight.

Zitao leans against the wall, one foot to the floor and the other bent into the tiles. Sehun's name is pink and blotchy on his inner thigh. Raised, puffy around the edges of the lines. It stings under the water and aches deep under the skin to touch and a spark of nervous excitement overrides both of those things as his attention flicks from his own markings to Sehun's.

"Happy?" Sehun steps his leg aside to give Zitao a clear view. He's already rinsed his hair; any further time spent in here is for the luxury of a door with a lock.

"I want to see what they're like tomorrow." Zitao smiles up at him, kittenish. Sehun slaps his hand away when he reaches to touch. Catches it, wet fingers slotting over a drying palm and pressing it into the tiles, pressing Zitao back into the tiles.

 

"Do you think— Am I a bad person?" Zitao asks, his shoulder blades sore against the wall and Sehun's fingertips rocking shallow inside him. Just the tips, just two fingers. Just Zitao. "For doing this," he continues, "For asking you to, to do this. It hurt, I hurt you—"

Sehun's forearm is starting to ache from the angle and from Zitao's weight progressively sloping down onto him, twisting his wrist and adding pressure to follow his squirming. "For liking that we did it?" They could be here all night if Zitao's only going to use his hands for clawing into Sehun's shoulders. "I don't. You're weird. But ok weird. We hurt each other, 's fair."

Sehun sucks his lower lip between his teeth, presses their foreheads together, weighs back on his heels to create just enough space. "And now we're each other's. Again. You're weird," he repeats, distracted, "Are you gonna come, you feel—", and drops his hand from Zitao's waist. "Now, Tao." Sehun's asking, prompting. His fingers stretch and stroke just that little more firmly, and he's smiling in that way he does when Zitao would usually grab at him and shake. Except he can't, because Sehun's hand is between his legs and lower. Because Zitao could have luxuriated in rubbing off against his hip for many more long moments but instead he stutters, thuds his forehead into Sehun's neck and peaks trying to curl into himself, forcing back a lump swelling in his throat.

"Don'—" Zitao hitches. Don't tease, don't stop, don't ever tell anyone ever. Zitao's not sure which tongue he's babbling in as he comes down trembling, head spinning from the heat and steam and rush.

Sehun grumbles amiably and supports Zitao with his own weight, damp shoulders and chest pinning him firmly upright. Zitao whines, definitely in Korean now, because Sehun needs to know that he's not fair and he'd better never ever laugh about this and  _shut up_ , it's too hard to get the words out in the right order with the thumb of Sehun's left hand still digging tight little movements into the broken skin at Zitao's inner thigh.

˘

It only takes two weeks of hiding until the lines aren't starkly obvious, although two weeks in such close proximity with so many people isn't entirely easy.

"Are you growing up?" Junmyeon asks Zitao at the end of the second week. "We haven't showered together in ages."

"No! No, no no." Junmyeon is sleepy against Zitao's shoulder and jolts a little at the sudden raise in his tone. Zitao hates lying; his heart works faster than his head. "I've just been.. been, no. It's not that. We will soon, I promise."

"Hyung misses you." Junmyeon pouts, and he's still patting Zitao's shoulder, assuring him that his feelings aren't really hurt, up until others want space on the couch and forcibly remove him.

˘

Midway through the third week Zitao pulls Sehun aside during a shoot and cups his hands over his ear to whisper to him. He's looked pensive since they left the dorm this morning and restless waiting for Sehun to be free of staff. "I think it's gone weird."

"Because you touch it too much." Sehun doesn't have to ask; he's already told Zitao so numerous times before. Sehun lowers Zitao's hands and keeps them held tight in his own. He discounts that he touches it too, or at least discounts it as being Zitao's fault.

"No, because we have to change clothes so often and wear all weird fabrics and get sweaty all the time—"

"Either way," Sehun continues. Zitao's wrists strain in his hands. "What kind of weird? Infected weird?"

"Maybe." Zitao is still hot-faced and irritated from protesting. Of course Sehun's is fine — Zitao did it with the utmost care and precision. Zitao wants his to be fine, too. "It's hot all the time," he says, then swallows hard. It doesn't loosen his tight throat. "Does yours still sting?"

"No." Sehun releases Zitao's wrist to pat consolingly at his shoulder. He wouldn't offer to try again if this one goes wrong; it was about that moment, not their relationship as a tally. "But do you really think it's infected? You should have it looked at."

Zitao tugs his other arm free to fold them both tight over his chest. "How can I? Everyone would have read about it online before I'd even got back home." He scowls at Sehun like he should know better. Sehun shrugs in agreement; he figures Zitao should know better than to keep dislodging scabs in the first place. "I can't ask anyone, it's your  _name_ ," he says like Sehun doesn't know, aimlessly pushing his hands at him. Panic and frustration and it was supposed to be forever  _and I messed it up_ —

Sehun doesn't kiss him because he can't with so many people around, but Zitao knows how to read the smack to his upper arm. It softens his tight expression considerably, and when Sehun tells him to clean it and then  _leave it alone_ he barely puts up a fight.

  
˘

Past a month on they've both faded into strokes softer and less defined. Sehun's scars are autumnally pale, oranges and browns barely visible through the fine hairs. Zitao is sad to see them go and radiantly pleased with his own.

They're apart when he texts Sehun to tell him, nearly 3am under a harsh fluorescent tube light. It was cold in the hotel bathroom before Zitao had his sweatpants pushed down his thighs, but his reflection looks back at him more smile than tremble.

' It's pretty' Zitao types. Looks around his phone and back to the mirror, himself folded in to type with both thumbs and the characters on his skin more stark for the surround of dark marble. It's a nice hotel— no nicer than others they've stayed in together, but Zitao would like Sehun here to see the size of the bath and the impressive pillow fort he's built with his two room shares less keen on being bolstered almost upright.

Zitao would like Sehun here. ' it doesn't look like yours, it's pink. I love it.'

' thank you'   
' I love you'

Sehun is an hour ahead and not receiving texts. Zitao pouts at the single check at the side of his messages but finds missing him a fonder kind of feeling with something indelible between them. He does suppose, sometimes, that it was a really stupid thing to do, but sometimes he sees Sehun's fingers rest at that spot on his thigh. Watching him trace and tap over it through his jeans, in person or in photos, Zitao thinks for now it was still one of his better ideas.

Zitao takes three photos perched on the edge of the basin with his leg crooked towards the light, two ringed fingers framing Sehun's name. He opens the second to edit and scrolls through effects, frames, eyes flicking back and forth from the screen to his thigh. He's numb with tiredness and should have been making good use of the pillow fort hours ago, but he's happy. So happy. And slow, too slow to even plausibly react following the sound of the door clicking open.

It's Yixing behind it, eyes gummed up with sleep. "Oh. Tao, sorry," he gives him a little wave, brow creased, eyes unwilling to open to the light. He says nothing about Zitao fumbling his phone onto the counter and hiking his waistband back up.

"Gē. There's a scar on my leg." Zitao's flushed from his ears to his collarbones, tingling with worry. It's an effort to remember the tone he uses when he wants sympathy. "I was taking a picture to show.. I was going to send a picture, they can't see it." He wonders if it sounds more like a lie for being the earnest truth, but Yixing just shuffles past, arms tight around himself.

"It's really cold in here."

"It is." Zitao picks up his phone and takes a step towards the door.

"Is it late?"

Zitao nods. Zitao's glad it was Yixing. "Goodnight, gē." He squeezes against Yixing's shoulder on his way out, and turns the light down on his phone to text Sehun from underneath the covers.

˘

"Yours didn't leave a mark in the end," Zitao whines as though this is Sehun's fault. Sehun swats at him and Zitao curls in, pressing his cheek into Sehun's thigh.

"It's there in the right light. People just all heal differently. You seem more prone to it." Sehun jogs his leg, jogging Zitao. Zitao clings tighter, pouting. This hadn't exactly been how they were going to spend their night off, but Sehun arrived back with the makings of a cold and was ordered early to bed. Zitao volunteered to help him along to a speedy recovery but soured towards the idea after a no kissing rule was enforced ("If I give this to you  _everyone_ will suffer.")

"At least yours is nice? You're still happy with it, right?" Sehun asks as he successfully detaches Zitao this time, motioning for him to bring the blankets with him as he scrambles to move to Sehun's side.

Zitao spends so long securing the covers around them both that Sehun gets the feeling he's avoiding the question, but when Zitao finally drops down beside him he's grinning. "Very happy. Am I supposed to be getting you anything?" Zitao stays propped on an elbow, ready to move, "Drink or food or medicine or, or what else might you need, I said I'd look after you."

Sehun shrugs. "Just company. I'm tired."

"Easy enough." Zitao tugs the covers up high and snuggles in close, making himself comfortable against Sehun's shoulder. He squawks loud enough to hurt in the back of Sehun's head when he's rolled away. "Hey—"

"I don't want to breathe on you."

"Who said I want to be breathed on," Zitao huffs, backing himself up against Sehun's chest and fastening Sehun's arms around himself. It wasn't long apart  — not a full week even, but their schedules aren't in their favour for at least a month ahead.

"You're doing a great job of looking after me so far," Sehun deadpans, mouth pressed to the back of Zitao's hair. He blows into it when Zitao doesn't respond. "I missed you, too."

Zitao whines and reaches to smooth down the tufts of hair, presses back harder. "I am sorry you got sick, though. Not just 'cause it means we can't go out."

"Sure you are." Sehun nudges beside Zitao's ear with his nose before making a congested sound that has Zitao trying to wriggle away. Sehun's arm is wound tight around his waist, though. He laughs into Zitao's neck when he lets out a soft wail. "I'm not going to get you sick. I know we share everything, but germs wouldn't be worth the hassle."

Zitao would protest everything and nothing if it weren't for the way he strains against Sehun when his hand shoves down between his thighs, at the pad of a thumb against keloid blindly, effortlessly sought out. It's just scar tissue, just Sehun's handwriting in a dull pink and white shine. They're barely raised from the skin, desensitised to the strokes back and forth now, but Zitao aches for the intimacy.  _I'm all yours forever and ever_ , he could say, but instead he just croaks, "If you missed me you'd reply to my texts."

"Busy." Zitao feels Sehun shrug. "Tired, time difference, you sending photos I can't open with other people around."

Zitao draws his shoulders in a little. "Stop breathing on me and get some rest," he huffs. And Sehun promptly does, face pressed into Zitao's shoulder, Zitao's hand warm over his own. 


End file.
